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ME AND BOBBI©
by George Wilkerson


Southern Discomfort: Part One



Ed. Note: Bobbi/George is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outing herself to the world. We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting. [Bobbi/George is also the manager of Bobbi Jo's Trading Post , a web site where TG's can auction off and buy clothing and accessories. If you have comments about the column, please feel free to write to the author

    [NOTE: This column, with names changed of course, is based on a true incident, but should not be construed in any way as a reflection on the Southern Comfort convention or those responsible for it. Sadly enough, bigotry knows no bounds.]
Bobbi picks up her wine and crosses to a table where there appears to be an empty chair. "This free happy hour is one of the nicer things about the conference," I whisper as we walk. "Moreso because a drink or two always tends to merge our selves. You notice?"

"I don't notice anything," she says. "I'm in my element. You, on the other hand, don't even exist."

I laugh and crawl back into the hole somewhere in Bobbi's mind. I know she's right; these events are totally for her."

"My name's Bobbi Jo," she says, introducing herself to the others at the table. "Mind if I join you?"

One of the girls, a slender blonde, obviously with real cleavage, extends her hand. "Not at all, Bobbi Jo. I'm Mary Lynn and this" she continues, gesturing to the others, "this is Maria and this is Tonya."

Bobbi shakes their hands, proffering the traditional limp four finger grasp she uses in lieu of my usual masculine grip. "Nice to meet you."

"And in case you hadn't guessed," the blonde continues as we drink our wine, "I'm from Miss'sipi...southern Miss'sipi. And this Georgia girl," she adds, pointing to Maria, "she's got nothin' on me." (She winks to punctuate the word "me.")

Bobbi
Bobbi
"I'll bet they don't," Bobbi says, smiling at her.

"Just check this out," the blonde adds, lifting her tank top to reveal her breasts. "One hundred percent grade A."

"Eggs?" Bobbi asks.

The blonde laughs. "You're a cutie. Anyone ever tell you that?"

We take another drink.

"An we drove here all the way. Smack dab through the middle of George...you know, that hurricane?"

Everyone nods.

"Thirteen hours. Right darlin'?" she asks, turning to Tonya.

Tonya shrugs. "Dunno," she replies. "I slept through most of it."

"Yeah...well that's what it was. Rain. Rain. Rain."

"Not supposed to get this far east, is it?" Bobbi asks.

The blonde shrugs. "Beats me," she says. "I asked that old nigger what carried our bags in, but he didn't know shit."

Bobbi freezes. "Pardon me?"

"Yeah. He looked at me like I was stupid or somethin'."

"Well," Bobbi says, her voice as icy as she can make it, "Maybe he just knew you were from...Miss'sipi."

The ice immediately spreads. No one looks at each other. But the blonde keeps on."I get the impression you got a problem, Bobbi Jo."

Bobbi shakes her head. "Not at all. But I know that you do."

Now Tonya leans forward and interjects. "Can we...er..change the subject,

Mary Lynn motions for her to lean back. "No way, baby doll. I wanna hear this." Leaning forward herself now, her smile changes to a leer as she looks us squarely in the eye. "Maybe you'd like to explain exactly what that problem is."

Bobbi shakes her head. "The problem is" Bobbi says slowly, "...you're a faggot...a pervert...a cock sucker. At least that's how some people would refer to you. But I guess you don't mind if someone refers to you that way. Do you?"

She leans closer. "Well, Miss Bright Eyes, I suppose it all depends on who's sayin' it. "

"Jerry Falwell...Jesse Helms...and just about every ignorant dumb-ass I can think of."

"Well, that's because they are dumb."

"I agree. And so are people who use derogatory terms to refer to other minorities. That's one of the ways they keep them down, you know."

The blonde leans back now. "I see," she says. "You're talkin' about me callin' that nig....I mean, like, just because I referred to that fella that way you think..."

"It's all the same," Bobbi says.

"Yeah, well, you don't understand. I didn't mean nothin' by it. That's just a word. You didn't grow up where I did."

"So what do the folks where you grew up call you?"

George
There's a pause. "I didn't mean nothin' by it," Mary Lynn says again, only this time it's softer.

"It's all part of the same problem," Bobbi says, shaking her head. "I just can't understand how someone can be part of one group and not realize it's all the same."

Mary Lynn picks up her drink, finishes it, and stands up. "I don't know about you all," she says, looking around the room, "but I came here to have some fun. And this conversation got too damn serious for me." In one swift move, she steps away from the table, adding "I'm gonna find me some party girls" and glides away.

Bobbi looks at the others. They smile weakly. Tonya blinks and takes a deep breath. "She's really a good person," she says.

Bobbi nods. "I'm sure she is," she replies. "I'm sure she is."

    [NOTE: This column, with names changed of course, is based on a true incident, but should not be construed in any way as a reflection on the Southern Comfort convention or those responsible for it. Sadly enough, bigotry knows no bounds.]



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